The Divided Knight - Chapter Twenty-Five

Garrold emerged from the flames on a platform surrounded by trees. The platform had not been a part of the larger network connected by transit spells, but Garrold had somehow been able to find it – he'd been drawn to it, in fact, almost as if it had been a platform left specifically for him to find. He suspected part of his finding it had to do with his being a Spellbinder, but he also a had the sense there was something else behind it, as well. Had the Spellbreaker who had broken the transit spell back at the castle known a Spellbinder would follow in her wake and then done something to mask the platform he was now on from the rest of the network without disrupting it, something that would call to him the moment he remade and utilized the spell she had broken? Garrold strongly suspected that that was the case. Who were you? he wondered. What were you trying to do?

The platform Garrold had emerged onto was in a stretch of forest just to the east of where King Lyrian's forces had made camp for the night. Garrold began to head in their direction, then stopped, looking down at himself. Luckily, he was no longer dressed in his bedclothes from the night before, but the simple clothes he wore, now – cloak, tunic, breeches, and boots – were not clothes that were meant for battle. Plus, he had failed to bring his sword, or any other weapon of any kind. What would Garrold do when he confronted the king's forces? How would he face down the creature that lead them? He was fairly certain harsh language wouldn't work.

You're a mage, idiot! he thought. Do you really need a physical weapon when you can use magic?

But how much magic would Garrold be able to wield using nothing but intuition? While it was true that he had already done several impressive things – not the least of which was create a spell which had summoned the spirit of his dead wife – how much more could he do without really knowing what he could do? Taking a deep breath, Garrold decided that none of that mattered. He was the Duke of Telvany, and his people were in danger. Stalling here in the forest and worrying about what he could do to protect them would not serve them. He set off.

It took Garrold about an hour to leave the forest and step out onto the plain where the king's forces had camped. The night was clear and cold, the moon a sliver in the western sky, just above the line of the trees. The King's Guard, whose forces probably numbered between five hundred and a thousand, had set up their tents in a fairly standard military fashion, and had lit only what torches were absolutely necessary. From where Garrold stood, he was able to see two sentries standing outside the nearest tent, and sensed the spell that had been placed on them that would keep them awake and alert. Drawing himself up to his full height – deciding that, to start with, anyway, he would approach his enemies with every bit of ducal air that he could muster – Garrold started toward the tent.

“Halt!” one of the sentries shouted. “Who goes there?”

“Garrold Hilstren, Duke of Telvany!” Garrold shouted back. “What is the meaning of this incursion into my lands?”

“These are the king's lands as much as yours, Your Grace,” the sentry said. “Something our commander feels you may have forgotten.”

“Does he, indeed? Fetch your commander for me, then. I wish to speak to him.”

Garrold sensed the sentry's nervousness – his fear – as he answered. “The commander is not to be disturbed,” he said. “If you wish to speak to him, it will have to wait until morning.”

Garrold stepped closer, summoning more of his magic – enough, he knew, to make his eyes start to glow. “I don't think it would be very wise of you, son, to make me wait until morning to speak to your commander,” he said. “Get him for me. Now.”

From deeper within the camp came a blur of motion. It streaked over to where the sentry stood, and, when it stopped, a tall, pale creature, with upswept, pointed ears and wearing black, leather armor had joined him. The creature, whose armor was emblazoned with the symbol of a blood red serpent, reeked of magic, and, as Garrold watched, it pulled an enormous, rune-covered sword from a hilt it had strapped to its back. “You wished to speak to me, Your Grace?” the creature said, derision dripping from its hissing, raspy voice.

Garrold summoned enough magic to make his eyes blaze with blue light. “Only to tell you that you, and the force you command, are not welcome on my lands. From this day forward, these lands are protected, and no one holds sway over them but myself, and my heirs.” Garrold used his magic to enhance and amplify his words. “Leave Telvany, creature, or you, and any who follow you, will die.”

“So, you are a mage,” the creature – who had to be some kind of twisted, evil form of Eltaran – said. “But you are a mage who knows not what he can do. Your powers will not save you from the bite of my blade, Duke, and, when I kill you, your people will be helpless before what is to come.”

“That may be so, but they are my people, and I will not sacrifice them without a fight.”

“Then die, fool!”

Multiple things seemed to happen at once. First, Garrold became aware that, hidden within the trees he had just come out of, a large group of people – maybe as many as fifty, and all giving off a faint magical signature which was all but identical to that given off by his brother – waited for the signal that would tell them to emerge and attack. Before Garrold could wonder why he hadn't noticed them earlier, that signal came, an ululating cry, amplified by magic, splitting the night. The cry was followed by a throng of figures in dark robes, each of them carrying a staff carved from ash, rushing out of the trees at a dead sprint. Except for the sounds of their bare feet striking the ground, they came toward the camp soundlessly, and, as the seconds passed, their speed increased until they became blurs that streaked passed Garrold and into the camp, the two sentries having no time to react before being knocked to the ground.

The creature Garrold faced, who had been momentarily distracted by the monks' sudden appearance, turned back to Garrold, snarling as he raised his sword to strike. Garrold dodged to the side, then launched himself into the air, hurtling his opponent and landing behind him before he had even finished his first swing. Targeting the sentries – and only having the barest idea of what he wanted to do – Garrold flung his hands out to his sides, twin balls of blue light streaking out toward the two men. When the spells struck, the sentries sprang up as if the monks had never knocked them down, then turned and hurried into the chaos the camp had become. If everything worked the way Garrold hoped, those two soldiers, as they fought alongside the monks, would free other members of the King's Guard from whatever spell their commander had put them under to make them follow him.

There was a red flash as the commander's sword made contact with the shield Garrold had thrown up around himself. Spinning around, Garrold conjured a fireball and flung it at the Eltaran, narrowly missing him as, hissing, he ducked out of the way. In a flash, the Eltaran was back on his feet and attacking, hacking and slashing wildly with his sword, each blow rebounding off Garrold's shield with flashes of red light that came so fast it was as if Garrold had acquired a flickering halo the color of blood. Garrold knew the flashes for what they were – rents in the fabric of reality – and he felt the power within him starting to swell, feeding off the energy that was being unleashed. He's making me stronger, and he refuses to attack me with his own magic. Doesn't he realize he can't beat me this way?

Before his opponent's next blow landed, Garrold unleashed a torrent of radiant energy – a blast made of nothing but pure force – at him, throwing him backward and causing him to lose his grip on his sword. Garrold summoned the sword into his hands, then, using nothing more than his own force of will and the power surging within him, snapped it in half across his knee. Now, he'll attack me with magic.

Except the Eltaran didn't. Instead, he started begging for his life.

“Please, my Lord,” the Eltaran said as Garrold stood over him, the two halves of his sword still in Garrold's hands, “spare me. Allow me to leave, and I swear I will never return.”

Garrold was puzzled by the Eltaran's behavior – didn't he understand that, if he just used magic, he might stand a chance of winning? – but decided not to let it show. “I doubt your master will give you that luxury,” he said. “He'll send you back, and, when he does, you'll die, anyway. But, you see, I want you to go back. And take this message with you.” Garrold waved his hand and there was a hiss as the crimson serpent on the Eltaran's armor was burned away. “Tell your master that Garrold Hilstren, Magister of the Torvaran Empire, has declared the days of the Crimson Serpent over. This time, they will be dealt with once and for all, and never again will their filth be allowed to blight the world. Now go!”

Once the Eltaran was gone, skittering off into the night like a whipped dog, Garrold turned toward the camp. The fighting had started to quiet down, and, as Garrold watched, a soldier and one of the monks emerged and walked toward him. They stopped a short distance from him, the soldier giving a respectful bow, the monk resting on his staff and smiling one of those damnably serene smiles Garrold so often saw on his brother's own face.

“You have something to report?” Garrold asked. He had released his hold on most of his magic and, with it gone, was beginning to feel exhausted.

“Just to let you know that, with the exception of a few holdouts, we're yours, Your Grace,” the soldier – who, Garrold suddenly realized, had been the sentry that had challenged him when he'd first approached the camp – said.

“Well,” Garrold said, feeling woozy, “that's good news, isn't it?”

He never felt the soldier and the monk catch him as he collapsed.